


A Different Sort of Prey

by badxwolfxrising



Category: Fables (Willingham) - All Media Types, Fables - Willingham, The Wolf Among Us
Genre: Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drama & Romance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Introspection, Missing Scene, Romance, Smut, Whump, and bigby has bad dreams, citrus-flavored fanfic, the crooked man dies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 07:04:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17320259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badxwolfxrising/pseuds/badxwolfxrising
Summary: He can’t argue with her, so instead he sips his drink. The sharp bite from the bitters and the sweetness of the vermouth mingled with bourbon is starting to grow on him. Maybe he’s underestimated Snow’s capacity for vice. “You want to talk, let’s talk about what almost happened in my kitchen the other day, before the phone rang.”Snow leans back in her chair and fixes him with a look he’s not sure how to interpret. “What do you think almost happened in your kitchen the other day?” she asks him, the pitch of her voice raising just slightly with the subtle increase in her heart rate.Setting his drink down on the scarred table top, he tucks an errant strand of hair behind her ear, just as he had the day before. He speaks with more confidence than he feels and his voice only shakes a little. “I think I almost kissed you, you almost let me, and we both almost admitted how we really feel. I think you’re also twice as turned on now as you were then. What do you think?”A halfway canon-compliant and truncated retelling of the events of The Wolf Among Us, with a heaping dose of all the Snowby smut and UST we really wanted but never got.





	1. Part 1

Before he even rounds the corner of Bullfinch Street and sees the telltale strobe of blue and red police lights out front of The Woodlands, a germ of unease uncoils in the pit of Bigby’s stomach and every hair on the back of his neck stands on end. He tries to take a deep breath, to help clear his head, but the humid summer air feels and tastes like damp gym socks balled up in his lungs. Dee makes some snide and stupid comment, but it goes in one ear and out the other as his extraordinary canine hearing picks up and zeroes in on the hushed murmur of the police officers at the scene of the crime.

_“What kind of monster would do such a thing?”_

_“How can we ID her with no fingers to print? We’re gonna have to release pictures, we don’t have a choice.”_

_“But what happened to the rest of the body?”_

_“Shame, she was a pretty girl. Rose red lips and snow white skin, like a fairytale princess.”_

He moves forward in what feels like slow motion, Dee temporarily forgotten as the dread swells up inside of him like a sudden hurricane on an already stormy sea. Undeterred by the crime scene tape, he ducks underneath the police line and walks with purpose towards the front gate of the building. An officer leaving the scene covers his mouth and dry heaves, the crime evidently so horrific and violent that it was literally making the first responders ill. That sick feeling in his own stomach is now a dull roaring in his ears as he gets closer to the front steps of the building. It smells all wrong and every warning signal in his brain is going off like a klaxon but he is unable to spare himself the sight of whatever lies beyond the shaking semi-circle of officers gathered by the steps.

He is only half-surprised to see Snow’s decapitated head staring back at him, rose red lips frozen in a perfect O of surprise.

* * * * *

The only thing more surreal than seeing Snow dead on his front porch is seeing her storm into the interrogation room, very much alive, right as he’s about to pound that bastard creep Bluebeard into a pulp against the slimy, worn brick wall behind them.

“What’s going on down here?” she demands, her porcelain skin flushed with anger.

Bigby’s never been more relieved or ecstatic to be in the presence of a thoroughly pissed off Snow White. He doesn’t even mind it when she grills him on the way to the elevator.

“What the hell was going on down there, Bigby?” she snaps, making no efforts to conceal the disgust in her tone. “Abusing a prisoner like that…”

“That wasn’t me,” he interjects, maybe a tad too defensively. “Bluebeard decided to go all bad cop, I was just trying to reel him in. Believe it or not, he said I was going too easy on Dee.”

Snow’s left eyebrow tilts up skeptically, but she says nothing.

“Okay, you’re gonna have to explain this, cause I’m really not getting it yet,” he confesses. What he really wants to ask her though is how is she not dead? How is she standing next to him now, smelling all alive and irresistible when an hour ago he’d been staring at her severed head on the steps outside The Woodlands?

“After our conversation in the taxi last night, I got a call from Toad. He said his son found a body. We thought it was Faith at the time…” she says, her voice trailing off as the elevator doors slide open. “Getting her back here wasn’t easy, but hopefully we’ll find something on her to help us track down the killer.”

“I should’ve been there,” he laments, flooded with guilt that he was busy chasing after a suspect who may or may not have actually been involved in the murders while Snow was left alone to collect a dead body that looks uncannily like her own.

She shrugs. “I tried calling the business office, but there was no answer. I couldn’t find you. Or anyone. So I took care of it.”

Enveloped in a maelstrom of his own emotions, the elevator is beginning to feel as claustrophobic as a casket. “Snow…” he says and his voice falters. The reality of just how close he came to losing her tonight sets in. He wants to tell her that he loves her, that he always has, but the words are frozen in his throat. He wants to grab her by the waist and press his lips against hers to show her just how grateful, relieved, and appreciative he is that she’s alive and well and here to be berating him for his shortcomings in person, but he’s a coward. Instead he just says, “I’m glad you’re not dead,” and it sounds trite even to his own ears.

Snow, bless her, cracks a half-smile. “Me too. I just want to get to the bottom of this. I just feel like-”

“What is it?” he asks, sensing her hesitation.

“I just...feel responsible in a way. She looked just like me. Maybe that’s why she was killed,” she frets.

“I don’t think it’s about you,” he says, feeling a twinge of guilt hearing how it sounds out loud. “This is connected to something bigger.”

Outside of the business office, she asks him what their next move is and becomes defensive when he suggests that _her_ next move should include being careful and lying low.

“And do what?” she asks sarcastically. “Sit inside the business office twiddling my thumbs while I wait for the Big Bad Wolf to solve all of my problems?”

He grits his teeth, frustrated at his own inability to properly convey what he’s feeling right now. The spoken language of humans is so much more nuanced and complicated than the language of scent used by wolves. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?” she retorts incredulously. “I told you I’m tired of sitting around, I’m not going to be an errand girl for Crane anymore!”

He curbs the desire to ball up his fist and smash it into the wall repeatedly until the only thing he feels is blood dripping through his fingers and not this terrible tangle of emotions raging through him right now. “I just want you to be careful,” he pleads. “I almost lost you once-”

Snow snaps back at him, cutting him off. “I’m not yours to lose!”

He wants to tell her that she could be his, if she wanted, and that if she were his he would never, ever lose her, never allow so much as a single ebony hair on her head to be harmed. But as confusing as he finds human social conventions, even he realizes the middle of a murder investigation is probably not the best time or place for him to dump all of his unresolved romantic feelings (and sexual tension) for Snow into her lap. He’s still not entirely convinced that Snow’s life isn’t somehow still in danger and he can’t even begin to imagine how helpless and frustrated she must be feeling right now. If he could just wrap her up and keep her safe somehow, until all of this was over…

But she would never tolerate being treated as fragile, or worse, like a possession. Snow has made it perfectly clear she’s her own woman and, if he’s being honest with himself, her stubbornness, determination, and strong will are half of what makes her so damn alluring to him. She’s no shrinking violet, no damsel in distress waiting to be rescued, just ripe and sweet forbidden fruit. If the Bigby and Snow of old could see themselves now, he dares to say that neither would recognize the other or their own self.

But maybe that’s not a bad thing. At least not for him.

* * * * *

He’s barely seeing images now, more so just colors. Black death, and rage, crimson red and hot. The bones in Dum’s meaty neck are grinding together underneath his hand and it would be _so_ easy to just clench his fist a little harder and snap the scumbag fucker’s neck like a dry old twig…

But he can’t do it. In his wolf state, he can hear Snow’s frightened, panting gasps and smell her fear. She’s not just afraid of Bloody Mary, but of him too, just like everyone else in Fabletown apparently. In this brief moment of clarity, he stares Dum in the eyes and makes the choice to let him go. He has to show her, show all of them, that he can change. That he has changed. That even the Big Bad Wolf has a sense of justice, mercy, and right or wrong.

He manages to lock eyes with a shocked and shaking Snow for just a moment before Bloody Mary’s lethal silver bullet tunnels into his already abused flesh. The last thing he hears as his vision fades from gray to black is Snow White, her panicked voice, ethereal as smoke, calling his name.

_“Oh God, Bigby!”_

* * * * *

He’s propped up in his chair, barely human and half alive. There’s a piercing sound, like fingernails dragging down a chalkboard. ANd blood, so much blood. It’s too late though, before he connects the shrill shrieking noise with the blood on the floor. Not nails on a chalkboard, but an across dragging across a wooden floor. There’s a shadow at his feet, he looks up and… Blood Mary is standing there poised, axe raised. She smiles like someone who’d just taken a face full of acid.

Her arms drop and the axe swings. “See you around,” she snickers just as he jerks awake.

* * * * *

Bigby, delirious and barely coherent, sets his own broken arm with gritted teeth while Swineheart picks fragments of silver out of his bruised and battered body and Colin and Snow squabble in the background. It feels a lot more normal than it should, the chaos. Problem is, it all feels a bit too comfortable as well. Perhaps Snow had had a point when she said people thought he enjoyed it. Enjoy was a bit of a strong word, though he had certainly became complacent here. No, he didn’t like the chaos, but he did like the way it made the adrenaline pump through his veins the way it used to when he would hunt. This time though, it was a different sort of prey he was stalking. A murderer, of course. But also...

Snow trails behind him as he gets up to grab a beer out of the fridge. He doesn’t remember buying it, but right now he’s just thankful it’s here in his hand, colder than the pieces of silver that had grazed his heart. 

“So, how do you, um, feel?” she asks, arms anxiously crossed over her chest.

“Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine,” he lies, turning to look out the window while he sips his beer. The neon is always obnoxiously bright, but tonight it feels especially unbearable, boring into his eyeballs like an electric icepick. Still, it’s easier to face the harsh lights of the Chinese takeout place than Snow’s nervous questions and Colin’s stubborn but well-meaning interjections.

“I’m glad you’re not dead,” she says quietly, offering him a gentle smile when he turns back to look at her. “You, uh, stopped breathing, you know...when you passed out...or died, I guess.”

Tentatively, she reaches out and lays her hand against his bandaged forearm. When she looks up at him, her eyes are wide and threatening to spill over with tears. “It...um...it kind of scared the hell out of me. I’ve never seen you like that. And when Swineheart arrived...you know him, he’s never worried. And even he thought you were...I don’t know. It was just awful.”

“Snow, I’d never leave you,” he says earnestly, hoping she reads between the lines when he says it. He leans forward just slightly and he thinks she’s about to answer when Colin trots in between them.

“Yeah, you were really fucked up, man. You looked like when you take an action figure and bend its limbs the wrong way!”

“Colin, do you mind?” Snow snaps at him, betraying just how rough this has all been on her. She’s usually infinitely patient, but apparently even her patience has worn thin with the freeloading, cockblocking pig.

Colin bristles. “I’m just sayin’, I was worried about the guy. Maybe you could stop leading him headlong into danger, y’know? Just a little food for thought for our fabulous Fabletown government.”

Snow drops her hands to her hips, the corner of her lips turning down just slightly. “Colin, how is it that you somehow always have money for whiskey and cigarettes but not a glamor?”

Colin snorts sarcastically. “I donate blood to high school proms for pocket cash. What’s it to you?”

“Knock it off,” he says without conviction, finishing his beer and chucking it into the trash can. It lands with a satisfying thunk. “Colin, isn’t there something else you could be doing right now? Like rolling around in a dumpster, or a pile of shit? You know...pig stuff.”

“Nice Bigby, real nice.. But I get it, I can take the hint. I know when I’m not wanted,” the pig says, nudging his way out the front door and muttering under his breath. “Some friend you are.”

Snow wrings her hands. “You think we were too hard on him?”

He shrugs, and pops open another beer. “Not really. Colin talks a lot of shit. Glass houses and all that. It’s not like you were wrong about the glamor thing, either.”

“Are you sure you should be mixing alcohol with whatever was in that drug cocktail Dr. Swineheart gave you?” she asks, concerned.

“Probably not,” he answers, tilting the bottle back and taking a long pull off of it. Wiping his mouth on his forearm, he resists the urge to belch. It wouldn’t normally be the sort of thing he bothered about, but more and more he finds himself worried about what Snow thinks of him. He wishes he knew, but it’s as much a mystery to him as who actually killed Faith and Lily is.

“Swineheart said you should get some rest,” Snow gently urges him.

“And I will. After we find the Crooked Man and solve the murders,” he answers, lighting a Huff n’ Puff. He takes a drag so deep he almost feels his stitches pulling, but the pain is just a continuing reminder that’s he’s awake and alive when by all accounts he shouldn’t be. The clock is ticking down and he knows they need to focus on the case but the way the neon lights play across Snow’s lips and face is so utterly distracting. WIthout thinking, he reaches out and tucks a loose strand of hair back behind her ear, his open palm lingering a little longer than necessary. The space between them has been steadily shrinking over the course of the conversation and now they’re practically chest to chest, hip to hip, with only maddening layers of clothing in between them.

Snow is giving him the most incomprehensible look but the shift in her hormones and body temperature and the rapid beating of her heart betrays her. She’s aroused. “Bigby, I-” The phone rings then, interrupting whatever she was about to say to him. She shoots him a regretful look before lifting the handset from the cradle. “Wolf’s residence,” she says brusquely. She listens for a moment and nods, but her body language shifts. “Thank you Bufkin, I’ll let him know.”

He closes his eyes and bites his tongue. “What did he want?”

“Guess who’s in your office?” she asks, crossing her arms over her chest. She doesn’t give him a chance to answer, but states it like an accusation. “Nerissa.”

“Nerissa?” he repeats. He knows what Snow must be thinking, and almost stumbles over the words trying to reassure her.”She works at the same club where Lily worked, she was the one who gave me the tip about the Open Arms. Maybe she knows something else.”

“Yeah...maybe,” Snow says, but she sounds skeptical.

It’s stupid, but he still feels the need to defend himself. “Snow, it’s not like that. My only interest in her is strictly professional.”

“Bigby, there’s no time. I have to change out of these clothes. Go meet with Nerissa, let me know if you find out anything useful,” she says.

As she slips out the front door, he can’t help but feel like an important moment just slipped through his fingers, as ephemeral as grains of sand. They had been so close to...something, just then, but if he can muster up the courage to make himself that vulnerable again is another story.

* * * * *

The fate of the Crooked Man is in his hands. Half the town is clamoring to throw him down the WItching Well, a smaller majority wants to bind him with magic. He’d tried to make it democratic and put it up to a vote, so it wouldn’t be on his shoulders alone, but no one could agree and as Nerissa had pointed out, he was the only officially appointed representative.

“Oookay...Mr. Wolf, it’s your call,” Snow declares reluctantly.

He starts to protest, but she cuts him off. “Snow-”

“Just...do what you think is right,” she says, giving him a meaningful look.

It should be an easy directive, but he hesitates. Because historically, doing what he thought was right at the time has gotten him into trouble. He’s tired of being seen as a savage, an uncontrollable rogue just a full moon’s shadow from losing control. But he also strongly feels in his gut that if the Crooked Man is imprisoned rather than put to death, he’ll worm his way back into Fabletown, under the skin and in the souls of the poor and disenfranchised, which describes more of them than it doesn’t. And more than anything, he fears that if the Crooked Man is allowed to live, it’ll be a death sentence for Snow and himself for daring to topple his crooked empire.

He tries to explain his trepidation, but the Crooked Man makes the decision for him, dropping his cuffed hands around Bigby’s throat and choking him as he drags both of them towards the WItching Well. He has no choice but to fight back, finally breaking free and gaining the upper hand. He hooks the Crooked Man in the face, his other hand tightly gripping his stupid pinstripe pimp suit.

“Ah, there you are,” the Crooked Man crows delightedly. He glances back at the townspeople knowingly. “I hope you all...remember this moment. Think of me...when you try to sleep. Finish it, Sheriff!”

There’s a moment there, where he has to resist the urge to tear the bastard in two before dumping his sorry carcass down the Well. It would be tremendously satisfying, and while he’s sure Holly and Grendel would approve the act of violence, he’s not so sure about Snow, or the rest of them.

“You’re gonna miss me,” the Crooked Man threatens. It’s a simple statement, but Bigby has gotten especially good at reading between the lines. If he cuts the head off the snake, what will he chase? Letting the Crooked Man live would be admitting that he is a chaos junkie who doesn’t know how to handle himself when everything’s golden.

“No,” Bigby replies vehemently, shoving the murderous pile of shit towards his fate. “I won’t.”

Hurtling towards the bottom of the Witching Well, the Crooked Man lets out a scream, the most human-sounding thing he ever had or would utter. Bigby doesn’t realize how hard he’s shaking until Snow grabs his hand, tangles her fingers through his own, and quietly murmurs, “It’s over now.”

He can’t decide if this feels like an ending or a beginning.

* * * * *

Less than twenty-four hours later and it’s back to business as usual at the Woodlands. It feels oddly surreal, like there should be some grand outward sign that they’d caught and punished perhaps the biggest crime boss in Fabletown, but everything just seems the same as always. When he goes to see Snow at the business office, there’s already a line a dozen fables deep, all with different and varying expressions of boredom or annoyance.. Just as he reaches for the door handle, Snow bursts out of the office, looking harried.

“Oh...Mr. Wolf. Flycatcher left his keys,” she says, holding them out to him.

It’s not exactly the reception he’d been hoping for, especially after what had almost happened in his kitchen just the other day. “Can we talk?” he asks her.

“I’m-I’m sorry Sheriff, I have to take care of this,” she says, refusing to meet his gaze as she ducks back into the business office. “We’ll talk later, okay?”

A moment later, Bluebeard sashays past the line and into the office behind Snow. “Good morning, Ms. White,” he says as the door swings shut.

Bigby can hear Snow’s irritated reply of “You’re late” through the door and he can’t help but wonder if she’d felt just as wounded as he does now when Bufkin had told her Nerissa was waiting in his office. Slinking back downstairs in defeat, he thinks his chance to tell Snow how he really feels must have slipped away after all. After he sees the truck off to the farm, he’s going to drown himself in the bottom of a well-earned bottle of Jack.


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And this is where it goes divergent, because in my universe Snow and Bigby hook up now and not twenty years later under the influence of magic. :-P

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part is waaaaaaay longer than the first part, but it sorta made the most sense [to me] to separate it the way I did.

Several hours and a fifth of bourbon later, he’s sprawled out shirtless on his chair, remote clutched in one hand, rocks glass in the other, a cigarette clamped between his clenched teeth. He should be resting as Swineheart had advised him to, but instead he’s trying to stave off sleep by watching reruns of Family Feud on the staticy TV. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees Bloody Mary standing over him with her axe raised or the Crooked Man’s arms flailing as he plummeted down into the inky depths of the Wishing Well. The one time he wishes he had Colin to keep him company and the talking pig is nowhere to be found. Maybe he had taken Bigby’s earlier suggestion to go and do ‘pig shit’ literally, or he had wisely fucked off before they started rounding up Toad and everyone else who didn’t have glamors. Now he regrets saying it, because he really, really, really doesn’t want to be alone right now.

He’s just starting to nod off when someone raps softly on the door. “Who is it?” he asks, dragging himself up out of the chair. The digital clock, if it’s accurate, says it’s almost midnight. He can’t imagine many people who’d be calling on him at such a late hour. He hopes it not an emergency requiring his immediate attention, because he’s just about it had it lately.

“It’s me,” Snow says from the other side of the door. “I promised you we’d talk later.”

“I didn’t think you meant that quite so literally,” he says, pulling the door open. He’s surprised to find that on the other side of the door Snow is in her nightgown, silk robe thrown over top and her hair hanging down around her in soft waves. The hems of both the robe and the nightgown just barely cover her thighs and he swallows a breath. “Is everything alright?”

“Oh yeah, of course,” she answers as she twirls a lock of her hair around her finger, an innocent but nervous gesture. “It’s just...well, I don’t know about you, but I can’t sleep. It’s too hot, I keep thinking I’m hearing things...seeing things. I keep getting up and checking the locks. I know it’s ridiculous, but I’m still on edge. I don’t feel safe. I keep waiting for something to happen I guess, for the other shoe to drop. I just can’t believe it’s over. Crane is gone, the Crooked Man is dead, but it still feels like there’s something coming, you know what I mean?”

He knows exactly what she means. “You wanna come in? I’ve got a bottle of bourbon that might solve at least half of those problems.”

Snow wrings her hands, purses her lips, and looks off to the side. “Actually..I was wondering if you would come stay with me at my place. I just don’t really want to be alone right now.”

The request catches him off guard. “Oh,” he says dumbly. Is the universe fucking with him today? First Snow blows him off, now she’s at his front door in her pajamas at midnight asking him to come over. It seems almost too good to be true and he hides his own nervousness with sarcasm. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather invite Bluebeard for a sleepover?”

She rolls her eyes. “I hope you aren’t being serious right now. It’s bad enough I have to work with the domineering prick, I don’t need to be seeing him in my free time. But enough of this, we’re in the hallway where anyone could overhear. Just come over? I have more than one chair, and a bed. We can take shots and debrief, I think we both need to...unwind a little bit.”

Internally, he’s howling but he manages to keep a calm and passive face. “I can come over, if you think it’ll help you relax. I need to shower and change my bandages though.”

“Well let me help,” Snow says, putting her palm against his chest. “Let me take care of you. I feel bad. I feel like I did this to you myself, it’s the least I can do.”

He starts to tell he isn’t a child, but thinks better of it. “If you insist. Can I smoke in your apartment?”

She smirks, hands on her hips. “Only if you’ll cut me a short.”

The answer surprises him. In all the years he’s known her, Bigby doesn’t think he’s ever seen Snow smoke. Maybe this whole thing really was hitting her harder than she was letting on. As much as blending in as a human has been hard for him, he can’t imagine how difficult it must be for Snow in her position, one of the only women in Fabletown to work in the business office, surrounded by a bunch of cranky, randy old men who were reluctant to let go of the old traditions that demanded women always be subservient to men. She tried to help everyone who came through those doors, but with such limited resources available she was often stuck doing Crane’s dirty work. He was never the one who had to let people down, it was always her. And people always wanted to shoot the messenger. You deliver enough bad news and people start to blame you for it regardless, just to have a place to direct the rage at. He probably understood that better than most, especially over the last few days.

Both of them had had the hidden, seedy underbelly of Fabletown exposed to them and it was almost a shameful thing to realize it had been under their noses the whole time, all that needless suffering, all the exploitation. If he feels shitty about it, poor, empathetic Snow probably feels it a dozen times worse.

“Are you okay?” he asks her softly, jamming his hands into his pockets. 

“I’m...alright,” she answers with an unconvincing shrug.

He raises an eyebrow. “Is that some sort of code for really not alright?” 

“Why?” she says, tilting her head at him.

“Because I’m alright too,” he replies, crossing his arms over his chest. It still hurts like hell, but not nearly as bad as before. The itch of his body slowly knitting itself back together though is enough to drive him half-crazy. It’s still not enough though to distract his mind from replaying the events of the last 24 hours in a horrifying loop and evidently Snow is having similar problems. Maybe they can distract each other.

“So are you coming or not?” she asks him impatiently.

Locking his door from the inside, he pockets his keys and cigarettes and fumbles around for the whiskey. He almost grabs his crumpled shirt up off the floor, but it’s stiff and crusty with blood and the grime of the city and while it wouldn’t bother him he suspects Snow would mind. Hastily, he throws open his closet and rifles through the piles and the first thing he lays his hands on that appears even vaguely clean is a gaudy souvenir t-shirt from some Jersey shore hamburger joint he and Colin went to last summer. Normally he wouldn’t be caught dead wearing something like it, which is why it was currently balled up on the floor of his closet. More and more though, he’s getting the feeling he might not be keeping it on for long anyway. Before he can second guess himself he yanks it over his head, turns off the lights, and steps out into the hallway.

“Fuck, it’s bright out here,” he comments, squinting.

Snoww rolls her eyes and strides towards the elevator. “It’s not bright out here, it’s just like a cave in your apartment.”

“I know, right?” he says sarcastically, following her into the elevator. “It’s almost like I was a cave-dwelling creature in a past life. Maybe a wolf, or something like that.”

“Hardy har, Bigby. Maybe you should quit your job and go do comedy at the Trip Trap,” she says, elbowing him gently in the side.

“Ouch,” he replies, feigning injury.

“Shit, I forgot!” she exclaims guiltily. “Did that actually hurt?”

He looks at her in disbelief as they step off the elevator. “Did you just say shit?”

Snow shushes him as she fumbles with her key in the lock. “Alright, so maybe before I came to ask you to spend the night with me, I drank a glass or three of Reisling for courage.”

He suppresses a giggle. “You drink wine for courage. That’s adorable.”

“Only when there isn’t whiskey available,” she shoots back, pushing the door open and ushering him over the threshold. “That’s what you’re here for.”

“I’m deeply offended,” he says, passing her the bottle. “Here I thought you valued me for my wit and friendship and all the while you were just after my Jack Daniels. I feel used.”

Inside, Snow’s living room is softly lit with flickering candles that smell pleasantly of vanilla and cinnamon. It’s decorated exactly how he imagines her living room would be, with dark wood bookshelves and accent furniture and an oversized, crimson red high-backed loveseat

“Well you know me,” she says dryly, pausing to take a generous sip from the bottle. She wipes her mouth on the back of her wrist and hands the bourbon back to him. “I’m just a bitch like that. Or at least everyone in Fabletown seems to think so.”

“Hey, don’t talk about yourself like that. Not everyone thinks that about you. I know I don’t,” he assures her.

“Yeah, not everyone. Just Colin, Toad, Auntie Greenleaf, and anyone else I couldn’t help,” she laments. She reaches back for the bottle. “Give me that, please.”

“Maybe you want to slow down with that a little, unless you want me holding your hair back later when you’re worshiping at the temple of the porcelain god,” he suggests.

“I know how to hold my whiskey, Wolf,” she snaps back at him, snatching the bottle out of his hands. Shaking, she takes another gulp and shudders, and a single tear squeezes out from her clenched eyelids.

“...are you sure you’re alright?” he asks, even though he knows it’s a stupid question. He can see she’s upset, but about what specifically he can only guess. So many fucked up and upsetting things have happened lately, it could literally be anything, from seeing the decapitated troll glamored to look like herself to finding out about Crane’s corruption and his sick obsession with her.

“You know what’s the worst thing about this Bigby?” she asks and then answers without pause. “It almost made me miss him. Charming, I mean. And not even miss him specifically, just miss having someone to come home to who could comfort me after a bad day. After seeing Lilly like that...all I wanted was physical comfort. I felt like a stranger in my own skin, and I wanted to feel like my body was my own again. And I kind of hate myself a little bit for feeling that way because I know he was a shitbag and he had no respect for me, but I miss having someone to come home to. Someone to hold onto. Someone I could crawl into bed with and let the day slip away. You know what I mean?”

“I don’t,” he answers honestly. “How can I miss what I’ve never had before? Not that I don’t want it...but no one has ever wanted it with me.” It sounds a lot more melancholy said out loud than he’d intended, but it was just the truth. He’s never really had a great love in his life but then it wasn’t very surprising. From the day she’d saved him and made him human, he’s only ever had eyes for her. Of course he’s looked, and on rare occasion even touched, but it never went anywhere serious. His lifestyle doesn’t exactly lend itself to romance, and he isn’t exactly competition to the likes of Prince Charming. The fact that the majority of the women who’ve paid that sort of attention to him lately were all prostitutes isn’t lost on him, though he’s not sure what exactly it says about him, either.

Snow is looking at him, her eyes large and dark, her lips just slightly parted. “Bigby, I had to drink to give myself the courage to ask you here, and that’s because I have feelings for you. Almost losing you...that was a wake up call. I almost said something, in your kitchen. And then the phone rang and Nerissa was waiting in your office and I knew it was stupid but I couldn’t help how jealous I felt. I realized the idea of you with another woman made me so angry...because I want you. But I think you want me, too. You were upset when you thought you’d lost me too and I didn’t get it then but I do now. We can’t keep pretending like these feelings aren’t real. We’re afraid to lose each other because we love each other. Am I wrong?”

She’s not wrong, but he’s still caught off guard. He’s been waiting for another opening to tell her how he feels, but he hadn’t anticipated being handed one a silver platter. “You...love me?”

“I’ve always loved you, Bigby,” she says, right before Bloody Mary’s axe splits her head in half.

He sits in stunned and silent horror as Mary braces her boot against the loveseat and pulls the axe out of Snow’s head. Her lifeless body collapses against him and even though he opens his mouth to scream, no sound comes out.

“Stupid dog. You didn’t actually think this story would have a happy ending, did you?” she asks with a condescending laugh, raising her axe above her head.

This time when he screams the sound is loud enough to pierce the veil of sleep and he wakes with a start, bottle of bourbon clutched in one hand and tipping precariously. Hastily, he brings the bottle upright just as someone begins to knock on his door.

“Bigby? You alright?” Snow asks, rapping urgently. “I thought I heard screaming.”

Wearily, he throws open the door. “That was me. I uh...had a nightmare. The Red Sox won the World Series.”

Her brow tilts up, a sign her bullshit meter is operating just fine. “Uh huh. And since when have you paid attention to baseball?”

He glances back at the digital clock and sees it’s almost midnight. “What are you doing on this floor so late?”

She rolls her eyes and grumbles. “Don’t even get me started. I _just_ finished going over the new budget with Blue Beard and I’m about ready to drink bleach, i feel so grimy.”

“Might I suggest bourbon instead of bleach?” he says, tipping the bottle towards her. Summoning his courage, he asks, “You wanna come in for a nightcap?”

“You’ve been drinking it straight from the bottle, haven’t you?” she asks.

He considers his answer. “How would it play if I said yes?”

She crosses her arms over her chest. “Are you sure you’re alright? I know you, you prefer your bourbon on the rocks. If you’re drinking it straight, there must be a reason.”

“Yeah, and that reason is I’m out of ice,” he snaps defensively. “Do you want a drink or not?”

“Yeah, but I want ice in it,” she answers. “Put on your shirt, we can go to the Trip Trap and you can buy me a drink.”

“Yeah...about that. I sorta gave my last $58 to Faith the night she was murdered so she wouldn’t be short and I kind of haven’t had time to hit the ATM since,” he admits sheepishly.

Snow sighs. “How very nice guy of you.”

“I _am_ a nice guy,” he insists.

She stares at him blankly just long enough for him to start to sweat but then she cracks a smile. “Yeah, you are. Alright, drinks are on me, but only because I did the budget today and I know you don’t get paid nearly enough to buy us both whiskey worth drinking.”

“What’s wrong with well whiskey?” he asks, shrugging into a clean shirt. He forgoes the tie but jams his half-crushed pack of Huff n’ Puffs into his pocket. The box had taken a beating in one scuffle or another, but miraculously none of the cigarettes are broken.

It’s the little things.

“Meet me downstairs in five minutes, I just want to get out of these clothes,” she tells him, fingering the lapel of her blazer. “I know I’m a creature of habit, but after seeing Lily dressed like me...i’m thinking it might be time for a change.”

Five minutes is more like ten, maybe longer. At any rate, he has the time to chain smoke three cigarettes and wind himself up waiting for her. Now that he’s alone, he’s reliving his most recent nightmare of Mary attacking and killing Snow in her own apartment. He knows it’s stupid, but he hopes he isn’t tempting fate by going out to the Trip Trap with her. He’d seen Bloody Mary shattered with his own eyes, committed the act with his own hands (or rather, paws). Still though, he knows better than to assume that she’s gone for good. Fables are rather hard to kill, after all. The Woodsman had gotten an axe to the head just the other day and had walked away from it, who knew if Bloody Mary survived on the reflective surface of a metal tank or a blade.

It was unsettling to dwell on, so he stopped. Instead, he watched people walking down the street through the fence, oblivious to his presence just as they were oblivious to all the corruption and magic swirling around just under the surface. For one wistful and melancholy moment, he wishes his life were that simple. But only a moment, because he knows deep down inside that mundie life would be too...well, mundane for a chaos junkie in denial like himself.

He’s internally debating whether or not to light up another smoke when Snow saves him the trouble and walks through the door. He inhales like he would a cigarette, but the sight of her with her hair down is far more satisfying than any combination of nicotine and whiskey. Out of her usual work uniform of blazer and skirt she appears much more comfortable. Her hair falls in loose waves around her, long enough that it cascades down her bare shoulders and back. She’s chosen to wear a form-fitting white sundress that hugs the curves of her bodice and hips like it’s bespoke and he can’t help but notice how the modern cut of the dress gives her an aura of youthful innocence. She’d probably kill him for daring to think it but he almost can’t help himself, especially not when so much of the pale and perfect skin that would normally be hidden is on display. Mouth suddenly dry, he finds himself wishing he had the bottle of bourbon he’d left back at the apartment.

“Ready to go?” she asks him, offering her arm. “It’s actually a nice night since the heat broke. I figured we could walk, if that’s okay with you?”

“You sure you want to be seen out in public with me?” he teases, linking his arm through hers.

“Better out with you than at home alone with my thoughts, “ she says softly. 

He can’t disagree with that, especially not if her thoughts are as dark as his have been lately. He only wishes he could somehow protect her from them, but as it is he can’t seem to manage his own nightmares at the moment. The walk to the Trip Trap passes by in near silence, Snow apparently as deep in her own thoughts as he’s been most of the night. A nip or two of whiskey will either soothe her demons or coax them out of the darkness.

If Holly is surprised to see them walk in the door together she doesn’t let on, just plunks down two worn coasters and a bowl of peanuts in front of them. “What are you having?”

He glances over at Snow. “I’ll defer to the lady.”

“Two Manhattans, please. With Maker’s, if you have it,” she answers.

He watches Holly make their cocktails and pulls a face when he sees what goes into it. “Why would you ruin perfectly good bourbon by putting fruit in it?”

Holly makes uncomfortably direct eye contact with him as she strains the cocktail into two separate glasses. “I know right? Surely that’s gotta be some sort of a crime against alcohol. You got your cuffs handy, Sheriff?”

He shrugs, and cautiously sips the concoction. It tastes like the insidious sort of drink that appears innocuous up until the point where you realize you’re hopelessly inebriated. “Don’t look at me Holly, I’m off duty. Besides, it’s not that bad. You mix a decent drink.”

Holly smirks knowingly. “Well, there’s no accounting for taste, I guess.”

He’s not if she means the cocktail or his choice of companion for the evening, but knowing the bitter barkeep it’s probably both. “Yeah seriously. A thousand little dive bars in this godforsaken city and this is the one Snow wanted to come to for a nightcap. I don’t get it either.”

Holly purses her lips, unamused by his thinly veiled and sarcastic jab. “Feel free to fuck off whenever. Just try not to cause any more property damage than you already have this week on your way out, my claims adjuster has just about had it and I can’t afford for them to raise the insurance again.”

Snow sips her drink gracefully and, ever the diplomat, chooses not to acknowledge the sarcastic banter. “I like supporting fable-owned businesses. Besides, mundy’s don’t mix drinks like Holly does. I’m trying to take the edge off, not spend $40 to barely catch a light buzz. Being practically immortal apparently increases tolerance to alcohol and after the past few days I’m ready to put a few brain cells out of their misery.”

The mention of money reminds him that Holly still needs to be paid. He’s not sure how much the drinks cost, but Snow lays two twenties and a five down on the bar. He figures they owe her that much at least, after everything the corrupt government of Fabletown had put her through when her sister had gone missing. Holly collects the money without comment, eye contact, or offering them change. He’s not sure if he should be annoyed by her presumptuousness or relieved she’d accepted the small token gesture without attempting to shame or make them feel guilty. Human interactions still confuse him half the time, especially when neither party is actually human.

“C’mon,” Snow says, grabbing her drink and standing up. “Let’s find somewhere a bit more...private, to sit. You wanted to talk, so let’s talk.”

“Why talk when we could drink?” he answers, his resolve to be honest about his feelings suddenly abandoning him. Does he really want to be having this conversation here at the Trip Trap, with Holly and who knows else around to overhear it? He’s not sure why he cares if anyone knows how he feels about Snow, considering Colin had basically told him it was obvious to anyone with eyes that he was carrying a torch for her, but he still feels shy about it. His free hand dives into his pocket, searching for his cigarettes like they’re a life vest. Instead, his fingers close around the worn wooden key fob of the room at the Open Arms and his mind goes an entirely different direction. 

“You didn’t ask me to drink outside the business office, you asked me to talk. The bourbon is just to put us both at ease. So talk,” she insists, patting the stool next to her at an empty table. “You’ve had a head start on me, your lips should be nice and loose by now. What’s on your mind?”

He can’t argue with her, so instead he sips his drink. The sharp bite from the bitters and the sweetness of the vermouth mingled with bourbon is starting to grow on him. Maybe he’s underestimated Snow’s capacity for vice. “You want to talk, let’s talk about what almost happened in my kitchen the other day, before the phone rang.”

Snow leans back in her chair and fixes him with a look he’s not sure how to interpret. “What do you think almost happened in your kitchen the other day?” she asks him, the pitch of her voice raising just slightly with the subtle increase in her heart rate.

Setting his drink down on the scarred table top, he tucks an errant strand of hair behind her ear, just as he had the day before. He speaks with more confidence than he feels and his voice only shakes a little. “I think I almost kissed you, you almost let me, and we both almost admitted how we really feel. I think you’re also twice as turned on now as you were then. What do you think?”

She finishes her drink and pushes the empty glass to the far end of the table. Leaning even closer to him, she lightly rests her open palm on the inside of his thigh. Her breath smells like bourbon and honey and the promise of something far more sinful and sweet. If she moves any closer, she’ll practically be sitting in his lap. If he weren’t sure he was actually awake this time, he’d believe himself in another dream. “I think you aren’t wrong. You want to dance?”

As discreet as they’ve been, Bigby’s keenly aware that Holly, Gren, and the handful of other patrons are watching them with interest. Who could blame them? The sheriff and the deputy mayor paling around together and getting blotto in a dive bar is certainly gossip worthy in a community as small as Fabletown. Snow is already tugging him off the stool though, either oblivious or uncaring of watchful eyes as she arranges his hands on her waist and places her own on his shoulders. In the background, the inescapable Amy Mann coos at them to _hush, hush_ and he idly wishes that Holly would update the damn jukebox every once in awhile. Snow’s face is pressed to his chest, her breath is warm and boozy, and her hands are starting to...roam.

“Are you sure you weren’t drinking before we got here?” he whispers, bemused.

“Are you judging me for it?” she shoots back, swaying subtly. “Maybe I found one of Crane’s wine bottles hidden in the office, maybe I partook in a glass or two. I think I’m allowed, I did have to examine the headless corpse of a troll glamored to look like myself just the other day, amongst other assorted atrocities. And besides, weren’t _you_ drinking before we got here?”

He winces, desperately hoping Holly and Gren didn’t overhear her comment about Lily. “I’m an unrepentant alcoholic and everyone knows it but I think they expect more of you. Maybe we should continue this conversation somewhere a little more private,” he suggests, thinking of the key fob nestled in his pocket. 

“Well I’m sick and tired of living up to everyone else’s expectations of me because no matter what I do and no matter how many times I bend over backwards for other people, someone is always unhappy. Besides, we just got here and I don’t feel like walking all the way back to the Woodlands yet,” Snow complains, as though she’s forgotten about taxis or the fact that he’d be more than willing to pick her up and carry her there if she so much as asked. “I’m still going to need another drink or three.”

Good thing he’s got a key to a room that’s a little bit closer and a whole lot seedier. He shifts, and digs the wooden fob out of his pocket. “What if we didn’t have to go all the way back to the Woodlands? I know an open bodega that sells booze on the way to the Open Arms.”

She eyes the key fob like it’s a basket full of venomous spiders, or maybe poisoned apples. “Isn’t that the place where Crane...you know.”

“It is. But apparently there’s not a building in this godforsaken place that wasn’t tainted by Crane or the Crooked Man’s corruption at one point or another. Besides...it’s technically already paid for,” he says sheepishly. “Nerissa gave it to me as a clue when I was investigating Faith and Lily’s murders and since she’s skipped town and the Puddin’ and Pie is closed indefinitely there wasn’t anyone for me to return it to. Aside from the front desk of the motel. Suppose I could’ve done that. Seems a bit more obvious in retrospect. Oh well.”

She lifts her head up to look at him sharply. “Are you trying to take me to a seedy flophouse to seduce me?”

He sighs. “I promise you, my intentions are as honorable as yours. I just don’t think our private conversations or...whatever, needs to be their free entertainment. And you know it’s not any better back at the Woodlands. People talk, and so do fables. I’m tired of keeping up a facade myself, it’d be nice to shut myself up in a room somewhere no one is gonna judge me.”

Snow rewards him with a smile so overly indulgent that his heart skips a beat. “You make a fair point. But who said my intentions for you were honorable?” 

* * * * *  
Twenty minutes and a quick stop for booze at the Kum-N-Go later, they’re standing outside the front door of the Open Arms and suddenly both of them are as shy as school children. It’s taken them all night (and hundreds of years) to get to this place, and though he’s mostly sure it’s what both of them want, both of them are now hesitant to walk the last few feet. Despite what he said back at the bar, both of them know that if they go in there that it won’t really be to keep talking, at least not with words. Gathering his courage, he holds open the door for her and they walk passed the front desk without comment, so quickly that he can’t tell if Beauty is the one working or not, which is fine with him because if Beauty knows they’re here then half of Fabletown will also know about five minutes later; her manicured nails can dial a telephone number with preternatural speed. The flight of dingey carpeted stairs to the second floor is short, but each agonizing step feels like an eon. When they finally reach the door he fumbles with the fob, his idiot fingers betraying him half a dozen times before he manages to slide the key home into the lock, cursing and swearing under his breath. Finally having opposable thumbs isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Snow chuckles lightly, but says nothing. He hopes it isn’t an omen of what’s to come.

When the door finally opens, their mutual sigh of relief is audible. Wrapping his arm around her waist, he ushers her over the threshold, his heart still hammering nervously in his chest. The motel room is dark, save for the ambient lights of the city filtering through the window, and the half of her face that isn’t cast in the shadows is just as lovely as ever. _Gods, how he wants her!_ But whatever courage he’d had at the Trip Trap seems to have gone, along with the smooth words he’s been practicing in his head. Seduction isn’t something he’s had much experience with.

“Christ, it’s stifling in here,” he remarks, turning the dial on the ancient window unit. The air that filters weakly out of it is musty and only slightly cooler than the ambient temperature. Underneath the window ledge, the cheap wallpaper is beginning to peel and separate and the faded blue carpet is patchy and threadbare. Georgie and Vivian really had their girls take clients here? He’s slightly embarrassed he suggested bringing Snow to this shithole in the first place. He hopes Crane never used this room while playing out one of his sick fantasies.

“Well, it’s not glamorous,” she finally says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “But uh...it’s got charm.”

“No it doesn’t,” he says, fumbling over the buttons of his sweat-soaked shirt like he had the key. He’s not sure if it’s the alcohol or his nerves that are making him clumsy, probably some combination of both. He shrugs the damp garment off his shoulders and tosses it over the back of the desk chair, turning to stand in front of Snow with his arms folded self-consciously in front of his chest. Earlier that day he’d removed the bandages to give his skin a chance to breathe, leaving his healing wounds exposed. The freshly forming scar tissue twists around angry raised pink exit wounds, a savage reminder of just how close he’d come to losing his life. Snow reaches out and gently traces her fingers over a jagged scar just above his navel and he shudders.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” she says somberly, letting her fingers linger above his waistband. Using her teeth, she twists the cap off the bottle of bourbon and spits it inelegantly onto the table next to the bed, taking a swig before she offers it to him. “Hair of the dog?”

“Not funny,” he replies, accepting the bourbon from her. He drinks down the neck of the bottle with barely a grimace and tries to hand it back to her, but she’s distracted by a different scar on his torso now. 

Gently, she presses her lips against the raised tissue, as though her kiss were a panacea that could heal him. Maybe it is. The worst of his scars though are on his heart, literally and metaphorically and if anyone were to heal them, it would be Snow. She might not be a witch, but there’s certainly something magic about the calm he feels when she is near to him. A moment ago his guts had been twisted in anxious knots, but the feel of her lips against his bare skin is steadying. When she cups him through his trousers his eyes flutter shut and he grips the bottle tighter. This is all happening much faster than he imagined it would. Snow’s touch is slow but deliberate, both enticing and maddening, and he’s already half-hard with lust and anticipation.

Her clever fingers make easy work of his button and fly and she hooks her thumbs through his belt loops, carefulling guiding his trousers over his hips and freeing his erection. Her eyes are large and dark as they go back and forth between his rapidly stiffening length and his passive and relaxed face. “Why Bigby,” she purrs, giving him a teasing squeeze and a stroke. “What a big cock you have.”

He groans, both in pleasure and pain. It’s a truly awful joke, flattering or not, and it helps to quell some of the anxiety he’s feeling. He decides to play along. “I’d humor you and say ‘the better to please you with, my dear’, but you haven’t even taken your clothes off yet and here I am, completely naked. It hardly seems fair, just sayin’.”

Leaning back on her elbows, her lips curve into a lascivious grin. “I thought you might like to do it. Take my clothes off, I mean.”

“I like the way you think,” he answers, setting the open bottle of bourbon on the precariously uneven end table next to the bed. Shyly, he pulls the knot in her halter loose and lets her bodice slip down her body, leaving her pert alabaster breasts exposed. Gathering the excess fabric around her waist, he gently lifts and pulls the dress over her hips, revealing her completely nude form underneath. He exhales in awed disbelief. “You sat on a stool in the Trip Trap...and you weren’t wearing panties?”

“I didn’t want anything between us,” she says, wrapping her legs around his waist and behind his back.

Her heels press into the base of his spine, drawing them so close together that he feels the tip of his cock brush against the damp juncture of her thighs. Every synapse on fire, his eyes squeeze shut. It’s almost too many stimuli at once; the sound of Snow’s rapidly increasing pulse against the throbbing backdrop of the city, the heady and intoxicating musk of their mutual arousal, and finally, after years of furtive fantasy, her naked form spread out on the bed in front of him like an offering to the old world gods. In his fantasies he had dreamt of making love to Snow probably more often than he’d dreamt of fucking her. Never could he have imagined that reality would end up being stranger than the fiction of his dreams. They’ve gone from maybe almost kissing in his kitchen to just about fucking in a seedy motel room and he hasn’t even given her a real, proper kiss yet in the in between. He doesn’t want it to be over before it even begins but Snow is rolling her hips suggestively and it takes every ounce of willpower in him not to bury himself in her to the hilt.

“So much for foreplay, huh?” he asks wryly. “I haven’t even kissed you yet.”

She looks at him like he’s a simpleton. “What have these last twenty years been, if not foreplay? Bigby, I just want to feel like my body is my own again, I just want to feel alive right now. Kiss me if you must, but please fuck me while you do it.”

He’s never been the philosophical type, not really, but he suddenly finds himself full of questions. “Why now, Snow? After all this time, why tonight?”

She only hesitates for a moment before answering. “We almost lost each other this week. You only thought you lost me, but you...your heart stopped, Bigby. I didn’t just think I’d lost you, for a moment you were actually gone. And it felt like one of the longest moments in my life because all I felt was regret that you’d risked your life for me, died in the process, and I’d never even had the nerve to tell you how I really felt about you. And now I just want to make up for lost time, because I think you feel like I do and actions speak so much louder than words.”

She’s practically begging him for it, but he still feels reluctant. They’ve both been drinking and the scared, insecure part of himself worries that she’ll wake up sober in the sunlight tomorrow and look at him with regret, or worse, feel as though he took advantage of her. Part of him can’t believe that sober Snow White could ever possibly be interested in damaged goods like himself, so he asks for reassurance. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

“I’m not sure about much of anything anymore, but I am sure that I need you. Inside of me. Right now,” she says, just as serious as she’s been any time she’s read him a crime statistic or chastised him in the business office.

“Is that an official order, Deputy Mayor?” he asks, running one hand teasingly from her thigh and up her torso to cup her breast. Things had gotten real serious there for a moment and he’s already mildly uncomfortable with the overwhelming maelstrom of emotions he’s currently enveloped in. Making a stupid joke feels a lot safer than spilling his own feelings all over her, which he can barely comprehend himself. 

She props herself up on her elbows and regards him critically. “Maybe it is, Sheriff. In which case you’d best get to it before I report you as insubordinate.”

“Oh well you know bureaucracy,” he chuckles, softly circling her areola with his thumbs. “Technically, I’m off the clock right now. I might just take my time getting to the job. Don’t want to rush it. Gotta examine the scene, gather evidence.”

“How’s this for evidence?” she asks, grabbing his hand and guiding it to the slippery cleft between her thighs. “You asked me if I was sure I wanted this, I think you’ve got your answer.”

“The evidence is compelling,” he agrees, pressing a finger between her thighs and stroking lightly. “However...I kinda enjoy watching you squirm. I wanna see how long I can tease you before you actually do beg for it.”

In spite of his feigned machismo he’s anxious as hell band this last ditch attempt at delaying the main course with appetizers is because he’s afraid he’ll disappoint her somehow. Since becoming human he can count on one hand (with fingers to spare) how many people he’s been intimate with and he’s self-conscious about his performance. He’s been told before he was too rough. Right now, she’s asking for just one night and all he can do is hope and pray that one night leads to a thousand more and then some. He doesn’t just want to see her sprawled naked on cheap silk sheets, he craves late nights on the cracked leather stools of the greasy spoon around the corner, chain smoking cigarettes while they talk over coffee. He wants to save his meager public servant salary and go to an actual jewelry store and buy her the shiniest goddamn diamond he can afford and then propose to her on the Ferris wheel at Coney Island like one of those stupid romance movies he’d never admit to watching. He wishes to see her as a radiant, blushing bride, in a dress and a veil befitting a princess from a fairy tale. He yearns for winter nights spent cuddled up by the fire, cradling her belly as it grows gravid with his seed. All these romantic human ideals somehow feel both incredibly foreign and comfortably familiar. In his past life such things would’ve been out of reach, but even now he doubts his own capabilities. He hasn’t yet mastered being a human, not by a long shot.

“You don’t listen very well,” she says, but she sounds more amused than annoyed.

The gentle admonishment is enough to snap him out of his domestic fantasy and remind him of the task at hand. He crawls on top of her, straddling her thighs with his knees, tumescent cock poised and waiting at her entrance. Tilting his head down, he buries his face in the fragrant crook between her shoulder and her jaw and inhales the heavenly honeysuckle aroma emanating from the soft cascade of her hair. “Since when have I ever listened?” he asks, nipping playfully at her earlobe.

“I suppose you have a point,” she sighs, locking her ankles behind his back and squeezing his hips with her thighs. In a surprisingly fluid motion, she rolls over and they switch positions so that she’s now perched on top, straddling him. 

He stares up at her, not bothering to hide how impressed he is by her. “Holy shit. That’s fucking hot.”

What a sight she is riding on top of him! Her chest and cheeks flushed rosy pink with arousal, her lips dark red and bitten, nipples standing at attention. Her gleaming hair spills messily over her shoulders like black ink on a hurriedly written love letter and she’s the most beautiful creature he’s ever laid eyes on, human or otherwise. Now he really can’t bear it any longer, so as he strains his hips to meet hers he also bares his heart. “Please Snow. I need you too and I don’t want to be a lone wolf anymore. Let me in.”

This time, her smile is much softer. “I thought you’d never ask,” she says, sinking down onto him with a sigh of satisfaction. 

Snow’s much less demure in the bedroom than she’s ever been in the business office, and for once it’s almost a relief to have someone else take charge. The motion of her hips is slow, fluid, and practiced, a stark contrast to her rough and ragged breathing. Slicked in sweat, their bodies glide against each other as easily and smoothly as the mechanisms of a well-maintained gun, and maybe just as dangerous to his heart as any silver bullet. He scrapples to gain purchase, his hands squeezing her ass like a sailor thrown overboard clinging helplessly to a dinghy. He feels a little bit lost because he’s not accustomed to being so open and vulnerable; in his brief history of romantic encounters he’d never exposed this much of himself, emotionally or otherwise. There’s something insanely erotic about laying back, giving up control, and trusting that she’ll lead him down the path to his pleasure in the search for her own. Somehow, her hands and lips seem drawn to all the places he never realized he was aching to be touched and when her body clutches tight around his in the throes of passion he spills himself inside of her with a shudder and a howl. She crumbles inelegantly against him, and he doesn’t even mind the twinge he feels when her cheek falls against his chest.

They fall asleep like that, tangled together and entwined. When he wakes up a few hours later, hot, hard and still inside of her, they make love again. And again. And again.

After all, they’ve got lost time to make up for.


End file.
